


Hymetian Wax (Udarnik)

by Wallissa



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art History, Art Illya, Art Thief Napoleon, Descriptions of Artworks, M/M, Masturbation, Pygmalion And Galatea Elements, Supernatural Elements, let's be real this is just a retelling of the Pygmalion Myth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-04-03 20:45:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14004402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallissa/pseuds/Wallissa
Summary: Bronze, sharp edges, Napoleon briefly thinks of Rodin, but then the sun hides behind a cloud, Napoleon can see clearly, and all thoughts vanish from his mind.In a small museum in Russia, Napoleon falls in love with the statue of a Shock Worker.





	1. Salty Lips

**Author's Note:**

> You can read Ovid's version of the Pygmalion myth (the most well-known, I think, and the one I'm basing this story on) [here](http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A1999.02.0028%3Abook%3D10%3Acard%3D243). It's a short read and rather lovely, I recommend it :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for this fic was born when I saw Brodsky's [painting](http://soviet-art.ru/building-new-country-soviet-youth/i-brodsky-shock-workers-of-dnieprostroi/) "Shock workers of Dnieprostroi" in London last year. And a quick word regarding Shock Workers/Udarnik: They were highly productive workers in the Soviet Union. People exhausted themselves to the point of bodily harm to get that title.  
> If you'd like to learn more about the topic, [this article](https://russiapedia.rt.com/of-russian-origin/udarnik/) is really helpful.
> 
> And even tough "motivational statues of workers" was a big deal in the soviet union, I don't know if they had statues called "Udarnik". On top of that: All the artworks mentioned in this fic are nonexistent. 
> 
> I plan on wrapping this up in 4 chapters and I'll try to update once a week. Sorry about the length of the chapter, I know it's kinda short, but I fear they won't get that much longer. I'll try my best.
> 
> Also: The title of this work is taken from Ovid's "Pygmalion".

On that note - It wouldn’t be surprising if Napoleon had never spotted him. Firstly, Napoleon’s not here for his own enjoyment, he has a job to do. And secondly, he’s hidden away. Tucked into a little room, off to the side. Probably not intentionally, but Napoleon could’ve missed him if it weren’t for the afternoon sun. 

It’s around half past four, Napoleon has been wandering the rooms of this villa for two hours now, and there’s only so long you can look at a sketch for an unfinished portrait of Saint Sebastian before you look suspicious, or get bored. 

Don’t get him wrong, Napoleon adores the work, the smooth lines of Sebastian’s bare torso etched with brown pencil, the baroque curve of his hips, barely hidden behind a white breath of fabric, soft curls kissing bare shoulders. Napoleon has spend about three minutes on the eyes alone, admiring the glitter of unshed tears, raised to heaven in trustful awe, awful trust. There are neither tears spilling down his pain-flushed cheeks nor hints of blood dripping down his chest and yet Napoleon tastes salt on the tip of his tongue. It’s beautiful and Napoleon would keep it for himself, gladly, if there wasn’t a promise of half a million hidden in that frame. 

Half a million is an awfully big sum of money, certainly big enough a sum for Napoleon to interrupt his holiday in Belgium to make a weeklong visit to Moscow. So when he got the proposition, he licked the memory of cocoa powder off his fingertips and breathed in the sharp, clear scent of snow and diamonds. Oh, he loves Russia.

It’s a little villa, tucked away in a garden that’s bare this time of the year, with a marble entrance hall and stuccoed ceilings, alcoves and wooden doors, stories of an old family home whispering from every corner. It’s Napoleon’s favourite kind of museum, where art replaces humankind in a most obscure way, the spaces meant for humans awkwardly remodelled to hold art.  
There’s a certain familiarity in the air, Napoleon walks past Sebastian and can almost see the dining table, can hear the faint tunes of a piano being played in another room. In spaces such as this, cameras are a disturbance. What was once a family home still values privacy, even if its residents are made of oil and metal. But very attentive guards sit at the doorways, discreet like housemaids, and surely they know Napoleon’s face by now.

Right opposite to Saint Sebastian, there’s a 19th century Venus. Napoleon spends a good amount of time looking at her, too, his back to Sebastian. To pass the time as he pretends to be a very attentive lover of the arts, he asks himself what kind of clumsy curator would put those two paintings in the same room.

They have little in common except the beauty of their almost naked bodies, the white silk of their skin, the softness of their elegance. Napoleon sits on the leather divan in the middle of the room – authentic leather, too, the scent reminding him of Milan, new shoes, and he smiles as he sits.

Venus is standing in her temple, alone just like Sebastian on his field, neither worshippers nor punishers visible in the paintings. Which might be, Napoleon considers as he nibbles on his lower lip, because the audience fulfils both roles. Punishers or worshipers, depending on which way they face. 

It’s not quite clear to Napoleon whether Venus is a very realistic statue or whether the goddess herself entered her temple, her skin glowing white in the blue darkness. Napoleon briefly wonders if it’s a nod to that one story, that dialogue, the man who fell in love with a statue of Venus and risked his life to sneak into her temple at night to get close to his impossible ruler. Napoleon gets lost in the shadow of her bellybutton, imagining cool marble against a sweaty forehead, sighs resounding in the holy place, palms slipping on hard curves.

It’s time to move on, Napoleon decides, gets up and nods to the guard sitting by the door, offers a very American smile. As he steps back into the corridor, he’s sure that he can come by tomorrow without fear. If he’s lucky, it’ll be the same guard, and Napoleon will sigh dreamily as he watches the moonlight tickle Venus’ pink promise of a nipple. And the day after that, he’ll come back and briefly frown at the empty spot, and ask the guard in his best awful Russian hey – _“where did they take Sebastian?”_  
It’s not bad, as far as covers go, Napoleon likes hiding in plain sight.

And it’s just then, just as he thinks that very phrase, that a little ray of sunshine slides razor-sharp past his left eye. He blinks, irritated, and turns his head to see where the sun snuck past the walls of the old villa. The position of the windows is etched into his brain and logically, light shouldn’t hit him here, and yet- 

It’s a sculpture, the lemon-cool light of an afternoon in mid January reflecting off its surface to catch Napoleon’s eye. He has a role to play and actual interest tickles his fingertips, so he steps into the room with the curiosity of a dandy who has time to kill. 

Glossy, honey-brown wood creaks under his foot, dust dances in the sunlight that had so sneakily seduced Napoleon into the room he finds himself in, small enough to be a kitchen, maybe the room of one of the maids. Dark green walls where Venus and Sebastian had been accompanied by melancholic and sultry midnight-blue, a small window as a natural light source, a few bony branches almost scratching at the glass.  
Napoleon touches the thick wallpaper with two fingertips, his other hand resting on the small of his back in true museum-hopper fashion, and he squints to make out the sculpture that’s still glowing in the last traces of sunlight. Bronze, sharp edges, Napoleon briefly thinks of Rodin, but then the sun hides behind a cloud, Napoleon can see clearly, and all thoughts vanish from his mind. All but one.

The man is gorgeous. 

Not Rodin, he’s Soviet, no doubt, broad shoulders and breeches of a hard-working man, heavy boots that Rodin would never dream of putting on anyone, but Napoleon feels compelled to sink down and kiss them anyways. He’s feeling faint, feverish as he looks at that sharp face, clear, determined eyes. Bronze-kissed cheeks, hair in dynamic swirls frozen in time, like the wind came down to cool the sweat off his face as the man stands for once, forever the picture of power in human form. 

Rough, masculine lines define the body, the lines of his clothes almost abstract, crude, hard enough to look otherworldly, like a machine and an elemental spirit at the same time, but with enough detail in his facial features to give him a face, a personality. 

Napoleon feels his chest clench and he has to lean against the wall, there is no plush bank in this room for him to sink onto. He closes his eyes before he dares to step in and read the card next to those heavy boots.

Udarnik  
Shock Worker

From this angle, when Napoleon looks up, he can see the determination in those eyes, the action, productivity, power in his muscles, his stance. One fist clenched, the other with two fingers pressed against his palm, a sign Napoleon doesn’t understand, and yet he feels that it must be the sign for something yet to come, something powerful. This is a man ready to do something, anything.  
An agitator, a role model, an archetype.

“Oh, I can imagine them dying to be you.” He whispers, sounding breathless to his own ears, and for a moment, he wants to repeat it in Russian, so he’ll understand, the nameless Worker with the skin made of bronze. 

Napoleon has seen them before, artworks meant to motivate, to admonish, to inspire. But never like this.  
And Napoleon has felt a flutter in the pit of his stomach before while looking at bodies and faces, centuries old and made of metal and paint and magic. But never like this.  
He feels helpless, hopeless, like a boy who turned to say something to his friend in the changing rooms and sees him just as he pulls his shirt over his head. Breath stuck in his throat. Heart clenching. _Oh._

The sun is setting and shadows slowly creep over the Shock Worker’s face, giving his face the hint of a changing expression before the electric lights flicker on above them, the buzzing filling the otherwise quiet room. Napoleon is standing too closely, but there is no one around to care. He’s still, frozen just like the man he’s looking up to, but his is the only breath in the room, shaky and hot against cold metal.

He flees.

___

 

Later, when the sky has turned that melancholic, sultry shade of blue, Napoleon is still thinking about bronze and green walls. Branches are tickling the window of his hotel room and he twists and turns in his sheets. He should feel ridiculous with his fingertips below his bellybutton, quivering against the border of fabric. And he certainly shouldn’t think about any of it, but he can’t help it. 

With fingertips trembling against warm skin, he thinks about the sharp cut profile, the curls like melted metal. Last traces of light on broad shoulders. Napoleon hadn’t looked at the exposed skin for long, too intrigued by the face, and he tries not to regret it now. Tries not to think about the shadows of muscle, hipbones and ribs. He doesn’t touch art he doesn’t intend to steal. He doesn’t run trembling fingertips over strong shoulders, down a cold sternum-

He gives up on trying. 

His fingers slide underneath the elastic, fabric brushing the back of his hand and finally his hand curls around his cock, hot and throbbing. The metal would be a cold kiss against his overheated skin, a perverse shock to his system and something in Napoleon’s abdomen clenches almost violently at the thought. He gasps, squeezes himself and strokes up to the tip, feels how wet he is, how his cock is drooling at the thought of pressing against sharp lines of metal. 

Napoleon imagines resting his sweaty forehead against the cool curve of the Udarnik’s neck, curls sticking to the metal, leaving wet traces on his hard skin. He bites his lip, tastes metal and his cock is hot, pulsing and he just wishes he could press his tongue against the dip of his collar bone, his nipple, his jawline. His lips. 

Napoleon’s fist is wet with precome, his chest is glistening with sweat, his lips are slick with saliva and blood and he imagines pressing them to the curve of that mouth, imagines breath mingling with his, a hand on his jaw and that’s it. One, two, three pumps of his slick hand and his vision goes white, he can’t breathe, pleasure is burning through his lungs, his veins. Exploding behind his eyelids.

 

The sheets are a bit sticky where Napoleon wiped his hand and he sighs into the arm thrown over his face, sound dampened by overheated skin. This is by far the most embarrassing orgasm in his recent memory. Something flutters in his chest. The most intense, too.

The tree outside gently strokes the window and the sky slowly turns a dreamy, powdery shade of blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for reading!! I hope you enjoyed it and if you did, please consider leaving kudos or even a comment! That would really make my day.  
> I'm not a native speaker and don't have a Beta, so should you find any mistakes - please alert me. That'd be very sweet.
> 
> On other notes: The dialogue Napoleon mentions regarding Venus and the guy who fell in love with her - I read about it in "The Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony" by Roberto Calasso a while back and it was part of a dialogue between two men who tried to find out whether Homosexuality or heterosexuality was superior. One man used the story of the young man who snuck into Venus' temple to rub against her from behind as proof that heterosexuality was superior, but the other argued that, since he basically masturbated against her butt, it was kinda gay still. Man, don't ask me. Unfortunately I forgot who wrote that dialogue and basically everything else regarding it, but once I've found it again, I'll put the name of the author here, just to have that source here in case anyone is interested.
> 
> Other than that: I recently read that St. Sebastian is kind of a queer icon in art history? I can't really back that up though. Still. That's just a note on the side. 
> 
> Again, thank you for reading! Have a nice day!


	2. Shoulders dripping in Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Playfulness and greed make a terrible combination, Napoleon is self-aware enough to know that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to post this on sunday, but that didn't work out. The next one won't be up on sunday either, I fear. Hopefully I'll get it done by next Thursday or so. 
> 
> However. I'm incredibly happy that people liked this fic and this idea and I hope you'll enjoy this chapter as well! The comments and kudos blew me away. Thank you!
> 
> Also!! Atanau mentioned [this statue](http://static.diary.ru/userdir/2/0/7/2/207261/71995817.jpg) in the loshchad Revolyutsii metro station in Moscow, isn't he beautiful? Thank you so much for sharing! <3
> 
> And if you like this sort of information: I've been listening to ["Gulag Orkestar" by Beirut](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-UJX0QpkhhU) on repeat while writing and I feel like it translated into the chapter. A bit. The dreamy-hazy atmosphere of the song, and of course the lyrics ("They call it night, I call it mine"), it kinda fit into the dream sequence? I just really like that song at the moment..

It’s usually not a good idea to stay at expensive hotels when you’re planning a heist. Cameras and a staff that’s paid to remember your face and greet you by name, it’s risky. But the breakfast buffets are definitely better. 

Napoleon uses a still warm piece of bread to wipe the last traces of honey off his plate, careful to concentrate on nothing but the minty hint of lemon tree. Maybe he should stay a little longer, once the sketch is safely tucked between the reproductions of religious baroque drawings he’s carrying in his portfolio. Maybe another week. It would look suspicious if he were to disappear like a thief in the night, shortly after Saint Sebastian has been taken. 

Especially since he’s working so hard on his dandy-esque cover. Honey, grapes and milky tea for breakfast, sticky sheets and an artfully messy room, a trace of Eisenberg Paris wherever he goes. Napoleon watches the honey drip down his bread, golden strings and melted butter, and wishes it was just a bit more of a cover than it really is. Thinks of the sheets this morning, tangled around his legs, glued to his skin.

Maybe he should go shopping, distract himself a bit. They serve British honey for breakfast, which is all well and good, but it reminds him of the fact that he hasn’t had any Russian honey in a while. Maybe that’s an idea for today. Steering his mind away from bronze, towards gold.

 

The museum opens at ten am and closes its doors at 6pm, as they do. Napoleon makes sure to arrive at about two pm, the last kiss of red pepper still sizzling on his tongue, the memory of grilled salmon tickling his nose. It’s a carefully measured time frame, two to four, then he’ll have to leave for tea and to make sure he doesn’t stay till closing time again. 

Not that he’s afraid of being spotted, he thinks as he smiles and hands his coat and shopping bags over to the lady at the cloakroom (he suspects it used to be a waiting room, a window overlooking the garden on ground level, coat hangers and a fuse box were paintings no doubt used to decorate the walls – ironic that the only room that was solely intended for visitors looking at art nowadays is the only one that doesn’t hold a single painting). He’s been wandering around the halls for a few days, they’ve all seen his face. They know the American with the patent leather shoes click-clacking over creaking wooden floors. 

No, it’s not a fear of discovery that made him look up tearooms in the area. 

Napoleon hasn’t spent much time alongside other thieves, so most of his knowledge of his kind comes from the movies he watches on rainy days, poured on his leather couch, champagne pralines melting on his tongue while smoke curls out of his nostrils. And while he himself doesn’t really fancy dressing up in leather or waistcoats while slipping through the night, he surely identifies with the playfulness portrayed by those feline ladies and suited gentlemen. 

Playfulness and greed make a terrible combination, Napoleon is self-aware enough to know that. And thus, he only allows himself a very limited amount of time to wander. Because he knows, he _knows_ , that once he’s in that room again with time on his hands, his greed and playfulness will get the better of him. There is no point in denying it, so he simply reminds himself firmly that there is no way, he can’t take the Udarnik. 

 

Today, he only gazes at Sebastian for the blink of an eye. The sketch is familiar by now, the quality of the paper, the frame, the glass it’s tucked behind. That’ll do just fine, so Napoleon’s eyes fall on Venus instead.  
The problem with museums that weren’t built to be museums is the natural light. So, unless one is lucky enough to find windows that resemble those of a baroque summer estate, or is willing to crack the roof open to let the sunlight illuminate the room in an even glow, the lighting in the room will change rather drastically according to the time of day. But this is probably not the only reason for the shutters in front of the windows in this midnight blue cave. It has more to do with the nature of Sebastian, Napoleon muses, back turned on the devout youth. Sunlight would damage the agony-sweet lines of his body. Thus, Sebastian and Venus are isolated together, electric lights caressing oil and charcoal, leaving the corners of the room melting into darkness. 

It fits her, Venus, and her temple. Just like the day before, Napoleon finds himself wondering whether it’s a painting of a statue or a goddess. And there it is again, that idea of the man slinking between the columns of the temple, waiting for nightfall to run his knuckles up a marble-smooth thigh. Yesterday, the thought was deliciously perverse in it’s ridiculousness, but today, Napoleon bites the tip of his tongue and doesn’t let his gaze linger on the curve of her neck. Bashful, like a schoolboy caught staring, he let’s his eyes flee into the darkness of the temple-background.  
Embarrassment. That’s what you get for being perversely ridiculous.

When he turns to go, done with wallowing in a mix of self-pity and wishful thinking, he finds the guard looking at him.  
He has been coming here a lot lately. Is it his favourite work?  
Napoleon smiles at the man and takes his time understanding. _”Favourite painting, yes. Very beautiful.”_  
_”The painting? Or her?”_  
Napoleon shrugs helplessly, with a apologetic smile. He doesn’t understand. Or can’t explain himself, whatever happens to be more convincing.  
The guard nods and shrugs it off, smiles when Napoleon passes him. When Napoleon’s just outside the door, he looks back at Venus, fingertips drumming on the doorframe for just a second. 

 

The sky is a melancholic grey today, no sunlight to tickle Napoleon’s eyes and yet it’s easy to find the room. He slips inside, whishing he could close the door behind himself. Have a bit of privacy. A moment alone with him.

Silence greets him, unsurprisingly, and Napoleon knows immediately that the hours spent wandering around, getting lost in elegant shops were wasted. Golden honey, leather gloves, cashmere sweaters and pearl cufflinks, and his hunger still isn’t sated. 

The man is just as beautiful as he was yesterday, the determination in his eyes, the power in his shoulders, the sweetness in the curve of his lips, but now Napoleon feels that the first shock has worn off. It was the art lover who gasped, yesterday. Today, it’s the thief who steps in, head crooked. And just as anticipated, this is worse.  
The art lover will watch, adore with his eyes, might even show his love through analysis and interpretation, but the thief wants to own, desire pumping through his veins. Honey. Gloves. Sweaters. Cufflinks.

There is absolutely no way he’d pull it off. Napoleon knows. He’s not going to try. He can’t risk it. Hands clasped behind his back, just like yesterday, but it’s not the museum hopper today, it’s the child who’s been told to keep his hands to himself in a store. 

He would look beautiful in Napoleon’s flat.  
It should be ridiculous to imagine him with a jacket over his shoulders, or maybe a cashmere sweater, maybe a watch, something Napoleon put on him. It isn’t, not at all. The thought prickles through Napoleon’s brain like electricity. Greed. He should buy a watch. 

And he’d stand in the living room of Napoleon’s flat back in the US, where time slows down a bit when rain tickles the windows and the television flickers. The windows open when it’s not raining. In August, when the air is vibrating at night. Curtains blowing in the breeze and the lights of the passing cars below illuminating the room in little lightning bolts of white and red, he’d look _alive_ then. Metal warmed by the heat, face full of lightning-induced emotions. Napoleon could look at him, touch him, have him forever.

It’s ridiculously, deliciously perverse a thought, and Napoleon shakes his head as if to clear fog out of his mind. He needs to go, it’s almost four, he has to find that tearoom.

Before he goes, Napoleon spares a last glance at the Udarnik. He’s almost glowing, like he’s dripping in honey, the curve of his shoulders, the lines of his chest, his arms, the insides of his wrists.  
Napoleon can’t steal him.  
His shiny shoes are loud on polished wood.

____

 

_Napoleon’s feet are bare on cool marble. The air is light, fresh on his chest and in his hair. It smells like incense and flowers and he isn’t alone. Golden rings that no doubt hold torches glimmer in the dim light, but none of said torches are lit, and it’s almost dark. Almost, not quite, there is some sort of light source, but he can’t make it out. It might be the moon, peeking in through the columns._

_Whatever it is, it’s bright enough that he can almost make out the details of the room he’s standing in, but not bright enough to really see where he is, or who’s hidden in the shadows._

_Nonetheless, Napoleon isn’t afraid. No one wants to do him harm, he’s sure of that. He’s more of a visitor, waiting for his chance to speak to the owner of this place. A hand wraps around his throat from behind._

_It’s warmer than the air around them and Napoleon can feel goose bumps breaking out on his arms, his nipples tightening. There’s no reason to be afraid. He freezes._  
_It’s quiet, no breath is tickling the shell of his ear and he feels dizzy, eyes lost in the blue darkness between the columns in front of him. He knows there’s someone else, hidden behind flowery air, but he can’t see them, like the dimensions between him and the shadows are blurring, interchanging, like the world around him is vibrating, air turning oil, turning liquid, turning air again, he tries to blink it out of his eyes but it doesn’t work, the person, the being in front of him is nothing more than the promise, silver in the moonlight. Jasmine is burning somewhere, sharp-sweet._

_A voice in his ear, coming from far away and still right next to him, but he doesn’t understand what she’s saying. He closes his eyes, and that must be right, because she is talking again, sweet like syrup dripping down the shell of his ear. And the hand on his throat is pulling him in, his pulse hammering against the warm palm. Now he can feel warmth against his back too and he knows if he were just a bit closer, if he could lean back against him, he’d feel skin against his. But he can’t, the body behind him close and dimensions away._

_Breath against the shell of his ear now, it’s not the voice from before, he knows it’s not her, but he can’t open his eyes, caught in darkness as another hand touches his shoulder, a whisper of warmth down his biceps, muscle jumping, breath caught in his throat. Fingers find his, a thumb over his knuckles and Napoleon wants to take his hand, weave their fingers together, but he lifts instead, guides Napoleon’s hand to reach behind himself, unsure and clumsy in the dark until he feels fabric under his palm._

_It’s an awkward angle, Napoleon wants to turn, doesn’t dare to. Fingertips caught in rough, worn trousers, belt loops trapping him until his pinkie accidentally slips free, finds skin. The trousers sit low on those slim hips, Napoleon knows, feeling dizzy now that his hand is slipping on skin, slicking a sharp hipbone with his sweat. He knows he would be laughing at him, teasing, and Napoleon wants it so much, to hear that huffed laugh against his spine as he’s shaking like a virgin with his hand up a skirt. He wants to hear him, smell him, taste him, but the dimensions are blurry, they’re standing so close and yet there’s a barrier, something separating them, keeping Napoleon and him from each other._

_Napoleon desperately wants him closer, he tightens his grip. His thumb fits against the bone deliciously, the hand on his wrist squeezes and he feels him lean in. Lips on his neck, hot breath on his skin and Napoleon twitches, shakes, his fingernails digging into the sharp cut of his hip, trying to get him closer._

_His second arm wraps around Napoleon’s middle, hard muscles and soft skin, hand on his ribs. Napoleon wants to reach out, guide his hand as well, feel the lines of his arm, the angle of his elbow against his chest and fingertips clumsy on his waistband, but he doesn’t dare, doesn’t dare to do anything except stand still and wait. The hand on his ribs moves a bit until Napoleon’s heartbeat is fluttering against his palm, one fingertip catching on his nipple, an electric-sweet shock, probably the index finger, Napoleon can’t tell, his mind feverishly hot._

_He won’t talk, but Napoleon wishes he would. He wishes he could hear his voice, wishes he could see him, touch him, taste his skin, smell his hair, talk to him, Napoleon wishes-_  
_She’s back, he thinks he can see her smile through closed lids, jasmine burning right through his heart. He wishes-_

 

Napoleon sits up, choking on air. For barely a second, it felt like there was a petal in his mouth, sucked into his trachea. Blocking his airway.  
He’s so hard his hands shake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole idea of dressing Illya up is taken from Ovid's story of Pygmalion. He dressed his stony lady in expensive clothes and buys jewellry for her, but also states that she's very pretty while naked, too. And he also puts her on his bed. I didn't want to go that far with Napoleon's daydreams, though, because I honestly don't know how you'd get a bronze statue (or marble, in Galatea's case) to lie down on your bed, without breaking the bed, and in a way that would make picking said statue up again manageable. Sounds like a terrible hassle to me, to be honest. So I decided to ignore that part, I hope that's not in some way upsetting to someone.
> 
> ALSO! I forgot to mention that when I first uploaded the chapter but Eisenberg Paris make perfumes! And I simply love them. they're kinda on the expensive side and they don't smell "typically masculine" which is why I find them so fitting for Napoleon. ["Love Affair"](https://www.eisenberg.com/pr340/love-affair) is the one I thought most fitting for Napoleon. I actually hunted it down in our local perfume shop (I dunno, you don't really find it easily over here) and it's not as woody as I expected, kinda sweet, very airy and light. The slogan "Be passionate. Feel alive. Fall in love." was just too perfect for this story. Well, he won't be feeling alive alone for much longer, so that's a plus. (And a note on the side - they also have a fragrance called "Diabolique" which is my go to fragrance for Hannibal Lecter. Just. On the side. Idk man I love fragrances)
> 
> Thank you very much for reading! If you enjoyed it, please consider kudos and comments! They really brighten my day :)  
> Thank you and have a nice day!


	3. Cold Hands pt.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so late, I'm sorry! But it got longer than I'd anticipated, so I decided to cut it in half (which is also why there are 5 chapters listed now). Here's the first part! I hope you like it! 
> 
> I've been listening to music again, so if you enjoy dreamy french electropop (I have no idea what that genre is called but it's such nice dreamy music), consider checking out [Pays Imaginaire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MA2rWlOZqLU) by Polo&Pan!
> 
> ALSO! [Atanau](http://atanau-art.tumblr.com/) made a beautiful [edit](http://atanau-art.tumblr.com/post/169927251073) that features Napoleon as a sculptor and Illya as his muse! It has nothing to do with my story and the work is 100% product of their own creativity, but they showed it to me and I'm so blown away!!! Please check it out! And their tumblr in general!!! It's so great! <3!

_“For a girlfriend?”_

Napoleon wakes from his daydreams and pulls his hand away from his throat. _“An acquaintance, actually.”_ He watches as the woman weaves the stem of the last peony into the bouquet, her white fingertips dipping between green stems. 

_“You’re hoping to impress her, then?”_ The rustling of waxy white paper, thin enough that Napoleon can see her shadow through it as she hold it up for a second. 

_“I’m- yes, maybe.”_ Dark blue velvet, uncoiling like a snake as she wraps the ribbon around the bouquet.

_“She will be impressed, I’m sure."_ She offers another smile and the bouquet. He takes both with equally uncoordinated charm. See, he usually doesn’t really buy flowers. Not that Napoleon doesn’t think romance is dead or unimportant, far from it, but the kind of romance he usually indulges in involves buying drinks, not flowers. And here he is, buying flowers of paradise in Russia.

He insisted on the most expensive ones he could find and it had been four hours before he finally decided on this shop. On a street corner, the windows looking like a Dutch baroque artist painted them. Celebrating a complete lack of respect for seasons or climate.  
It’s not a terribly big shop and its rather dark inside, green light filtering through the baroque arrangements, making Napoleon feel like he just stepped into a ruin of a shop, nature overgrowing man-made structures. The air humid, green spilling along the walls and hiding the corners of the room. Flowers like explosions to his left and right and Napoleon feels like they might start whispering once he stops looking at them. They kiss and stroke his face as he wanders through them, getting drunk on their scent and feeling like a honeybee, bouquet in hand.

Compared to this secret garden, the air outside is cold and dry. Napoleon sighs out a little white cloud and rummages around until he manages to get both gloves on while still holding the bouquet. It’s not that he doesn’t like the cold, but he woke when the sky was barely turning grey and couldn’t fall back asleep. Even after two cups of black coffee for breakfast (and that wasn’t according to plan, his cover prefers sweet and milky drinks, but Napoleon had been desperate for caffeine), he still feels like everything around him is wrapped in cotton. 

A lesser thief might say it’s nerves, but Napoleon knows it’s not that. He isn’t nervous about the job tonight. The plans are made, he knows what he’s doing, it’s not that.

\--

Today, Napoleon sighs as he enters the room, rolls his shoulders back and feels ridiculous. Not because of what he’s about to do, but because he’s so nervous about it.  
His shoes click-clack as he makes his way over to Venus. An elderly couple is watching Sebastian, talking in low voices and it eases his embarrassment. At least he’s not alone with her.

He sits down next to the couple, facing the other direction to look at her, the bouquet resting on his lap. Quality flowers have a more potent scent, that’s why he chose them. The powdery-clean scent of the peonies, mixing with the warm and sweet scent of the velvety roses. And the jasmine, the scent reminding him of warm hands as he watches the flowers spill down over his knees. It almost fills the room. Not comparable to the cold, watery scent of cheap flowers. 

Napoleon hopes it’s appreciated. But now that he’s here, he doesn’t really know what to do now, feels like everything he wanted to say has been cleared out of his mind.

It takes him a moment before he looks up at her again, trying to find her face in the dark of the painting. There’s little order to what he thinks, or prays, or tells her. It starts and it’s a jumbled mess and Napoleon feels like he’s wasting everyone’s time, there’s no filter to his ideas. Usually he indulges in taking what he wants, but asking for it now feels decadent. 

His gaze shies away from the smooth-hard curve of her hip, back down to his own lap and the flowers. The first, faint sting of a headache is pulsing behind his eyes, like he tried on glasses that don’t fit him, eyes painfully adjusting to the shifting of the layers of the world around him. Like this, the bouquet looks more vibrant, like it’s pulsing with colours. Napoleon has to close his eyes for a moment, the paper crinkling under his fingers and his grip tightens. One last time, he tries to form a proper sentence. Then, abruptly, he gets up, Jasmine a white-green waterfall down his leg.

_“May I leave it here?”_  
_“For your girl?”_  
_“No, it’s-“_ Napoleon searches for the right way to explain himself, and this time it isn’t pretend. _“-superstition.”_  
_“So it’s for her?”_ The man nods towards Venus.  
Napoleon nods.  
_“Fine, but they’ll probably throw it out later.”_  
_“That’s fine.”_

He leaves, without paying a visit to the Udarnik. Tonight is the big night, he needs to stop and focus on that only. 

\--

It’s just past one AM and the street behind the museum is empty, neon lights glossy-wet on empty cars. The villa is surrounded by a red brick wall, broken through by the main gate and a few other, less flashy doors along the side. Behind the wall, the garden will await him, an open space and the danger of being seen as he makes his way across it. That’s his least favourite part, the journey from door to door, especially at night. 

Napoleon gets his picks from one of the pouches on his utility belt and the third opens the janitor’s entrance like a golden key left specifically for him on a glass table. A glance to the left, one to the right, and he steps through a door notably less elegant than the gates he waltzed through this past week.

The grass is wet and soft under his boots, silent. He’ll be snuggled under his covers by the time ice crystals cover the blades and turn the lawn into a glittering thieves-trap. The backside of the building isn’t as lavishly lit as the front, which means crossing over the lawn isn’t such a big risk, but a great risk nonetheless. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? It’s always dangerous, and fretting over it doesn’t really improve the situation, so Napoleon decides not to waste time, stick to the shadows and move quickly. Three, four more steps and his wet shoes touch the terrace overlooking the garden. In the dark, he can see his own silhouette reflected in the glass windows, but not much of the rooms behind. 

As he walks along the side of the building, counting the windows, he tries to stay close to the walls without actually touching any of them. Too aware of the risk of snagging his clothes and leaving evidence behind. It would be terribly unprofessional to be caught because of a loose thread. 

Finally he reaches the sixth window and pulls himself up to sit on the windowsill. Here, he takes a moment to first slip the plastic cover over his boots, then wipe his leather gloves on a rag from his belt, making sure no sand or water clings to either. The lock on the window is harder to crack than the one on the door. It takes Napoleon a good ten minutes before he slips through.

By night the cloakroom looks almost devastatingly empty, but Napoleon doesn’t pause to wallow in times gone by and judge the interior design, instead making his way over to the fuse boxes. After a moment of hesitation, he decides to take the risk and just flip everything. As far as he knows, the museum doesn’t own any particularly delicate pieces that would suffer greatly from a momentary lack of proper AC. On top of that - the place doesn’t even have cameras. The risk of it being high tech enough to store such delicate works is very low. 

Napoleon checks his watch as he slips down the corridor, silent as a snake. Half past one. 

After years of doing this, it’s still fantastic to step into a museum by night. Like he stepped through the looking glass into a world where everything is the same, yet different. The frames like windows, the frozen worlds behind them dark and mysterious, hard to make out with the way the oil is catching the flashes of moonlight. Napoleon doesn’t use his flashlight here, only needs the little torchlight to open windows and doors. Inside, he moves freely, feet finding their way effortlessly after so many daily visits. On top of that, people are willing to think they imagined the dark figure passing by a window. The electric glow of a flashlight isn’t as easily forgotten.

At one thirty-five, Napoleon stands in front of the dark blue room Sebastian will be leaving tonight and he blinks his eyes a few times. When he looks straight ahead, he can see Venus and her temple, but as he tried to focus on her before stepping through the door just now, his vision swam. A bit like trying on glasses not fit for your eyes. Something shifting in the air, his eyes trying to accommodate, knees getting a bit weak, head dizzy. The first sting of a headache. Napoleon steadies himself against the doorframe as he steps into the room, shaking his head to get rid of the feeling. 

He thinks he can smell Jasmine, but when he checks the divan he left the bouquet on this morning, it’s empty. Maybe the scent lingered. He feels a bit flushed, his turtleneck and cap stifling, making it hard to breathe. As if the air quality shifted, warmer, fuller in his lungs, like summer and wild thyme. Taking a few shaky breaths, Napoleon turns towards Sebastian. There’s work for him here, he needs to focus. 

The frame isn’t too heavy, which isn’t surprising, since it’s only holding a thin sheet of paper. Napoleon lays it down carefully and slips his tool set out. It takes a bit of tickling, but the frame opens up under his fingers and Napoleon allows himself a little smile. The folder that’ll hold the painting until he returns to his hotel room is slipped between his undershirt and the turtleneck and made of leather. Flexible, yet sturdy and safe enough to hold a 300 year old drawing. Transferring the work from the opened frame to the folder is always the most terrifying moment. 

Usually, Napoleon feels his blood pumping in his skull, his fingertips feeling unnaturally cold as he lifts the delicate piece up. Tonight, his grip is efficient and quick, but his head feels like he’s underwater. It’s a dream-like state and the air around him seems to vibrate. The scent of roses strokes the nape of his neck, jasmine kisses the shell of his ear and Napoleon feels like there’s someone behind him, in the room with him. He can’t turn around, it’s like his body is separated from his mind, like he’s two people at once, one packing up, slipping the concealed and protected sketch of Sebastian under his shirt and securing it, the other frozen, shaking, tasting cool-soft petals on his tongue.

His head swims as he gets up, air shifting in front of him again, like it’s water and someone threw a pebble in, and now the reflection of the world around him and the depth of the pond are swirling, mixing together as the water surface ripples. With a deep breath, he turns, the world spinning around him in a swirl of blue wallpaper and marble columns. In the darkness of the room, only illuminated by what little light the hallway has to offer, it’s almost impossible to differentiate between the blue walls and the blue darkness surrounding Venus. The golden frame seems like a doorway, floating in the dark. Napoleon swallows and makes out the white curve of her body in the moonlight. The scent of flowers, incense, is so thick it makes Napoleon’s vision swim. He nods at her, an aborted bow, almost stumbles over his feet as he turns and leaves the room, leaving Sebastian’s frame empty on the wall. 

As he walks along the hallway, feeling like he just stepped out of a body of water. Disoriented and unsteady, Napoleon goes through his mental checklist. The tools are secured in their pouches and the painting is resting against his stuttering heart. So what is it he forgot?

He didn’t pick up Sebastian’s frame again. 

But it wasn’t on the floor as he left, it was on the wall, he knows it was, but how-

Moonlight cuts through his pupil, razor sharp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading!! Upon reading the original tale as told by Ovid, I found it so interesting that Venus was present during her festives and heard Pygmalion's awkwardly worded prayer. It reminded me a lot of christian religion - the idea that someone kind-hearted is listening to your thoughts and wishes. It's a very nice and comforting thought, in my opinion.
> 
> Also a few Alice in Wonderland/Through the Looking Glass references snuck their way into this chapter, as you might've noticed. I love those books dearly and it fit with the dream-like feel I wanted to evoke. Another reason why I chose to listen to Pays Imaginaire as I was editing. (my french is like, really basic, so I'm just going by the vibe of the song.)
> 
> Again - thank you so much for reading! Also for leaving Kudos and Comments, you don't know how much that brightens my day! :) Thank you! Have a nice day!!


	4. Cold Hands pt.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! Finally! The second half of chapter 3. It's the final chapter of the story, what follows will be an Epilogue of sorts.  
> It took ages to write this part and I hope you'll enjoy it! (There's dialogue)
> 
> (sorry this took so long. Uni steamrolled me. I also edited this on 4 hours of sleep and while sipping sparkly wine (and eating Asolette), but I really wanted to publish it since I've been working on it for like. Ages.)
> 
> ((Edit: I re-edited it today and I'm so sorry about all those mistakes. I hope I found most of them but if you find any more, please don't hesitate to tell me <3))

He stops in his tracks, his throat suddenly tight, the fine hairs on his arms and on the back of his neck rising. The moonlight is almost blinding, which is ridiculous, it shouldn’t be this bright at this time. Napoleon turns to his left and steps into the room.  
The cool light sucks the colour out of the walls, but it caresses the edges and curves of the Udarnik. Napoleon feels shaky, his hands are cold, sweat is trickling down his temple. The air is vibrating around him. He steps in until the tips of his shoes brush against the pedestal the man is standing on, the crinkling plastic the only sound in the room. This close, he has to tilt his head back a little to look at his face, watch the way the moon kisses the Udarnik’s cheekbones and his cupid’s bow, while the night caresses his neck, his cheek. Napoleon feels his heartbeat thumping in his ears, he blinks and looks down, the view of that face, kissed and touched by the night, it makes it hard for him to draw a proper breath, like a hand on his neck, squeezing.

Instead, Napoleon looks at his hand, the right one, concentrates on his breathing, counts the fingers, watches how the light catches on the fingernails of the two fingers that rest against his palm. The light on those nails flickers as the fingers twitch. Napoleon’s heart stops.

Twitch, twitch, he watches as the two fingers start beating a rhythm against the Udarnik’s palm and he feels hot, faint. Like the air around him is thick as molasses, swirling around him. Slowly, Napoleon looks up. Eyes meet his. The Udarnik is looking at him. 

Head tilting a bit, looking at him, straight at him. Napoleon falls back a step, but the hand reaches for him, a bronze flash and it’s gripping his wrist, cold, hard, tight enough to grind his bones, and Napoleon stumbles, staring at the bronze eyes that blink, blink at him, blink the bronze out of the corners and they’re white and blue and black in the dark, shimmery and real and he feels it on his own wrist, how metal melts like ice, skin cool and soft, Napoleon is slipping, he can’t move, the grip on his wrist tight and bronze is melting out of his hair, down his chest, what was glistening metal-cold just now becomes matte, skin, fabric, hair, Napoleon is going to faint, his knees are giving out-

 _“What did you take?”_ Metal in his voice, too, melting now, yes, but cold and coppery still.

“What is going on?” His voice is unsteady, as shaky as he feels and the man (is it a man? Is Napoleon standing in front of a man?) scoffs, shakes his head at him, the movement alien, like he hasn’t, hasn’t moved before, and he didn’t, he couldn’t-  
_“Don’t use that language with me. What did you take?”_ He nods at Napoleon’s chest, where the outline of the leather folder is visible and his heart is buzzing like a trapped bee.

 _“Saint Sebastian.”_ Napoleon’s tongue feels heavy, his eyes following the moonlight swirling in the gold of the man’s hair. 

_“What for?”_ His voice is harsh, his palm rough. Napoleon wants to kiss each fingertip. 

_“Work.”_

_“You’re a thief, aren’t you? There’s greed in your eyes. Did you disable the alarm?”_ The bronze has melted out of his voice, it sounds more human just as the hand on Napoleon’s wrist starts to warm up. But the voice, it’s still harsh, court, like dynamic brush strokes drawing a rough sketch.

 _“Yes, of course. I cut the power.”_ Napoleon feels like his mind is empty, like he’s hollowed out, thoughts swirling around like wind blowing through an abandoned amphitheatre. The stage is there, but no one is ready to perform their lines. 

The Udarnik frowns at him, disbelieving. Napoleon wants to cry at his feet, he’s so beautiful. _“You cut the power?”_

_“Yes. To disable the alarm.”_

_“Oh, good work, magpie. We need to leave.”_ The first sentence is bitingly sarcastic and startles Napoleon with its sudden outburst of character, the second one urgent, four brushstrokes. Napoleon tries to make sense of the sketch but it’s too modern. The man – the man? - shoves Napoleon back to make room for himself and steps down from the pedestal, moving towards the door. His boots are loud on the wooden floor and Napoleon watches the way the fabric of his trousers moves as he walks, the pattern of folds he spent so long memorizing gone with a single step. 

_“I- what? Leave?”_ Like Alice, he has no idea what’s going on. The Udarnik is moving with purpose and a cause and Napoleon doesn’t- he doesn’t understand, like it’s a dream, like he’s caught in a web of nonsense. 

_“Yes, of course, leave. You cut the power, they will notice shortly. Send the police. How long have you been here?”_

_“Maybe forty minutes, an hour.”_ Napoleon checks his watch. It’s half past three. He stares, disbelieving, as the seconds tick by. It can’t be. Where did the time go? 

Heavy steps on wood and he’s there, the man, in his space, his skin warm where it’s brushing against Napoleon’s arm. Alive. His breath on Napoleon’s cheek as he leans in, but Napoleon doesn’t dare to turn and look at him, he feels like he might break, sink to his knees and not get up before his throat is raw and he can taste salt on his lips. _“We don’t have time now. They will get here soon, and we’ll be in trouble. You can’t expect her to do all the work for you.”_

It still doesn’t make much sense, dream and reality blurring together like a reflection of the sky on the surface and the depth of the pond underneath. Napoleon dimly wonders what kind of stone he threw into that pond to stir up the waves like that.  
Maybe it was a flower.

The faint howl of police sirens cuts through the silence of the museum around them and they break into a sprint, the amber that protected them shattering as the world begins to move again. Napoleon’s plastic-covered shoes aren’t made for running and he slip-slides around. He’s crashing into corners painfully and more than once almost falls, like he’s ice-skating on glossy wood. The Udarnik next to him slows down to keep his pace, the thump-thump of his boots almost in time with Napoleon’s heartbeat. 

They make it to the ground level and the man looks at him. _“Where did you get in?”_ He’s not even out of breath, and Napoleon is a bit mad, a bit turned on as he gasps his response, steadying himself on the wall. _“Cloakroom.”_

 _“You didn’t prepare an exit route other than that?”_  
Napoleon shakes his head, making the Udarnik scoff. He puts his hand on Napoleon’s shoulders and forces him to move again, a light jog to the cloakroom. _”The plan was to leave without a trace, turn the electricity back on after slipping through the window. It’s a good method. It works.”_

 _”A stupid method, that’s what it is. Dangerous. We can’t turn on the lights with the police at the door.”_ And at the door they are, the policemen, currently throwing their weight against the heavy wood. The whole house seems to shake in anger, offended by such rough treatment, and maybe that’s why the doors are still holding up. Napoleon doesn’t have time to think about it, they slip into the cloakroom and the Udarnik is by the window in two steps of his long legs, pushing it open and peering out into the garden. 

Cold-fresh morning air whips around Napoleon’s face and he follows, crouching down to pull the plastic from his shoes before he hauls himself out through the window. Miscalculating, he tumbles down on the terrace, Sebastian bruising his ribs with the sharp leather edges, earning himself another glace from the Udarnik. His palms don’t sting, thanks to the gloves, but the damaged leather is just as painful to see. Napoleon feels like he’s looking at his pride, well-cared for, shiny, scratched now that the man next to him barely glances twice at him before making his way over to the door Napoleon snuck in through. 

He’s waiting by the time Napoleon reaches the door, which is ridiculous, he’s too fast for someone his size and the pale morning light is licking a stripe up his abdomen. Jealously, Napoleon turns to the door to coax it open again. His fingers have a quick dance with the pick and the lock gives in quickly, just like before, clicking open shamelessly after a quick slip and slide. 

The Udarnik behind him hums. A low, purring sound that vibrates through Napoleon’s spine, making his insides melt. _“You have experience with breaking things apart.”_  
_“Talented fingers”_ , Napoleon breathes back and pushes the door open for the man to step through. He follows and pulls the door shut behind him, hearing the lock click into place again.

And just like this, they’re out.  
Hardly safe, not with the police spilling through the entrance of the museum, but the house is out of sight now, hidden behind a red brick wall, the lawn is gone and for a moment, Napoleon doesn’t dare move or turn, fearing that the man will be gone, too.

There’s a hand on his hip and he turns, startled, only to find that the Udarnik has moved into his space, leaning in. Up close and in the grey light of the early morning, his eyes are startlingly blue. A colour that seems unreal and yet so intensely real that Napoleon can’t imagine how those eyes could’ve ever been made of reddish-golden metal. 

In ancient times, the finest statues sometimes had lashes made of silver, exorbitant luxury and extraordinary craftsmanship melting together to create artworks so exquisite their eyes alone could make Napoleon weep. The Udarnik has golden eyelashes. Casting shadows on his cheeks while catching the first traces of morning light, and Napoleon feels like he could cry again. 

Standing in the middle of a street, torchlight in hand and Sebastian pressing against his heart, Napoleon sinks into those eyes. Unable to move. This, he thinks vaguely to himself, is what those men must’ve thought upon looking at Medusa. 

The air around them is cold, there’s wind and the streetlights make everything look sharp and orange. The museum feels like Wonderland, now, a dream. Yet, the man is here and Napoleon feels like time – his own, personal time, his life, breath, heartbeat – slows down as he watches him lean in.

He doesn’t taste like metal and his lips aren’t hard-smooth. They’re soft, wet with his breath and when he tilts his head, they slip apart just enough for Napoleon to feel the barest hint of how hot he is inside. 

Napoleon wants to stay, to open the Udarnik’s mouth like a lock and slip his tongue in to enjoy something not meant for him. Steal something and keep it all to himself, sink into the heat of him.  
But the man pulls back, his words breathed hotly against Napoleon’s wet lips, each breath a promise that has Napoleon’s hands shaky. “Will you move now?”  
So Napoleon does.

-

The first person to acknowledge them is the lady at the desk, who smiles politely, eyes glued to the naked expanse of the Udarnik’s shoulders. Napoleon can’t blame her. It’s about five am and the last traces of winter still haunt the streets at night, leaving the world glittering in frost in their wake. When he puts his hand on the Udarnik’s elbow to lead him to the elevators, he imagines he can feel skin through leather, warm, like he’s glowing from the inside, warm and alive. His shoulders are wet with melting cold, Napoleon watches them shine under the warm lights.

Golden doors slide open and they step inside, the Udarnik fixing his eyes on Napoleon’s gloved hand, pressing a shiny black thumb to the second floor button, making Napoleon hyperaware of his own skin. It’s quiet and the lurch of the elevator is no contrast to what Napoleon has been feeling all night, like his body can’t comprehend the shift of time and space around him.

The carpets swallow the heavy fall of the Udarnik’s boots, soft, rhythmic, Napoleon feels it echoed in his chest. His fingers don’t shake when he pulls out his key card, but he still takes a moment before he pushes the door open. But the man didn’t disappear when Napoleon crossed the threshold of the museum, and he doesn’t disappear now, either. 

Instead, he closes the door behind them and a rustle of cloth tells Napoleon that he sunk down, probably to untie his boots. The sheer ordinariness of this, of untying one’s shoes upon arriving, it has Napoleon feeling shaky again. When he turn around, he finds that the Udarnik is wearing socks. Socks. Napoleon didn’t know, there was no way to see with how the trousers were stuffed into the heavy work boots, but he’s wearing woollen socks in a weird, off-beige colour that stands out against the red carpet floor. Feeling faint again, Napoleon turns to concentrate on himself. Step by step unravelling the thief in him, packing him away one piece at a time.

Shrug out of the leatherjacket; drag it over one of the chairs by the mirror.  
Wrap up the belt of utensils; put it on the seat of the chair to be cleaned tomorrow.  
Peel the gloves off and stuff them into the pockets of the jacket.  
Get the plastic covering of the shoes out of the jacket pockets; throw them away in the hotel bin.  
Slip out of the shoes.

Those routine steps done, always hyperaware of the Udarnik’s eyes on him, he now moves on to the critical part. Napoleon turns his back to the man to unclasp Sebastian from his chest and transfer the case into the protective lining of his suitcase. Once he’s ready to cross borders, he’ll add it to the other sketches, to protect it from unwanted investigation should the compartment be spotted during boarding. But for now he prefers to keep it tucked away. As he carefully smoothes the fake lining of the suitcase back into place, he notices how bad his hands are shaking. The branches of the tree outside his window are swaying in the breeze, like bony fingers beckoning an invisible guest closer.

He turns as he gets up and the man’s there, again, in his space, warm and alive, close enough that every breath brushes his chest against him. He’s tall, Napoleon’s gaze traces the dip of his cupid’s bow, he’s leaning in and Napoleon’s heart is fluttering, he’s feeling sick with it. 

_“What-“_ the shape of the word is almost a kiss, their lips sticking together just briefly as Napoleon opens his mouth to form that little “ah” and his voice hitches with it. He pulls back a little to allow the words to form between them, in their mingled breath. _“What’s your name?”_

The man’s hand on his hip is warm and as if it were an iron grip, as if he’d turned to stone, Napoleon can’t move back when the man leans in to trace his answer against Napoleon’s lips. _“Illya.”_ His mouth opens with the last syllable of the name, like a sigh, like an invitation and Napoleon tilts his head just a little, just enough that Illya – _Illya, Illya, Illya_ – can fit their lips together. 

His mouth is soft and hot, his tongue clumsy but determined. Napoleon can taste the first- second, by now, second - kiss on those lips, in the way their noses knock when Illya moves his head unexpectedly. It makes Napoleon smile and he feels that Illya is returning the smile, the first time he smiled in Napoleon’s presence and he can’t even see it. It feels beautiful. Napoleon could spend ages just feeling Illya’s smile against his lips, but Illya moves to speak. 

_“But what’s your name? Its hardly fair that you would know my name before I knew yours.”_ Illya – and Napoleon’s heart is still singing that name, he doubts it will ever stop – traces his words against Napoleon’s mouth, interrupting himself between fragments to deepen the brush into another kiss, and another, and another. Napoleon can barely concentrate on it all, the words and kisses blurring together. His brain sluggishly translates and he finds the presence of mind to answer.

“Napoleon.”

Illya pulls back a little, his eyes shimmering in the first traces of daylight. His gaze is unreadable but sharp, like he’s calculating to see how the name and the person Napoleon thinks he might be fit together. “Napoleon.”

Hearing his name from those lips is almost surreal. Napoleon feels fluttery as he watches Illya’s lips, imagining the tip of his tongue kissing the roof of his mouth three times as he forms the syllables. But Illya’s eyes are still seizing him up, still making equations. Making sense of Napoleon.

_“That’s rather fitting.”_

_“Because I’m a fearless conqueror?”_

_“You didn’t conquer Russia. Russia conquered you.”_  
It’s a statement, laced with such dry confidence that Napoleon is torn between laughing and feeling slightly offended. In the end, Illya’s presence, the warmth of his palms on his hips make the decision for him and he huffs a laugh. The way his shoulders shake makes joy spark in Illya’s eyes, the corners of his lips barely twitching. Napoleon promises himself then and there that one day, he’ll make Illya laugh so hard his cheeks turn red and he can’t breathe, chocking on his own hiccupped laughter. There’s something about Illya that makes Napoleon want to try harder. 

He reaches out for him and rests his hand on Illya’s hip, his thumb fitting along the bone. Suddenly, his mind is drawn back to awkward angles, warm air rich with jasmine. Breath on his neck. But this time, he can see, he can touch, exists in the same time and the same dimension as Illya.  
When Napoleon looks up, Illya’s eyes are on him, dark and shimmering. The last traces of the night have faded into an ashy grey light that draws Illya’s face in sharp contours and softens his colours. Silvery blue in his eyes, petal-pink on his lips and cheeks, cool gold catching the light. Like a sketch in pastels. It occurs to Napoleon that the warm gold of his walls is too oppressing, that Illya needs a white background.

-

The sheets curl around their legs, tangling them together even as Illya kicks his other sock off, beige wool against white cotton, then disappearing over the edge of the bed. Napoleon wraps his arm around Illya’s hip and pulls him in to lose himself in his kisses, his touches.

It’s easy, the last traces of adrenaline salty on his front teeth, Illya’s fingers in his hair, sticky with citrus gel. They are tangled almost to perfection, legs intertwined, hands in hair, gripping muscle and caressing skin, lips hot with each other’s breath and yet Napoleon wants more. There’s greed in his eyes. 

He hasn’t done this in a hot minute and lube spills over his fingers like water in slow motion. It’s rushed, his insides too hot, fingers too cold and he gasps, sucks in air that tastes like sunshine and warmth and Illya. Illya, who is on him in a breath, hands like butterflies, fluttering unsure until Napoleon grabs his wrist and forces his hand down, knocks their knuckles together.

Illya’s fingers are longer and he’s more careful, slower, like Napoleon is made of glass, gold and marble, like he’ll break. His eyes are glued to where Napoleon tangled their fingers together, is guiding him into a rhythm that makes his head swim already. Golden lashes and white teeth sunken into a rosy-pink bottom lip, leaving white imprints. Concentrated on holding back, on what he’s doing and Napoleon feels like a live wire, electricity surging through him with every blink of those eyes, every twist of those fingers. 

Finally he pulls his fingers away, taking Illya’s hand with him and those blue eyes are on him instantly. Napoleon shakes his head when Illya looks like he might move away, instead leaving a sticky handprint on his biceps to pull him closer. Hipbone to hipbone, the hot line of Illya’s cock against his skin, Napoleon has the firefly of an idea, of his palm hot on the elegant curve of Illy’s back, stroking down, but not now, not now.  
Now, he reaches for Illya, for his cock, feels him pulse in his slick grip while Illya gasps into the crook of his neck, shoulders shaking like he’s crying. Napoleon is not a patient man, but he’s always had steady hands when handling art and he gentles Illya closer until the blunt, hot tip of his cock kisses Napoleon’s hole, making it flutter, returning the kiss. 

It’s still a stretch, despite their combined fingers, and they both shake and clutch at each other when the edge of Illya’s hipbone strokes the curve of Napoleon’s arse. Napoleon can feel his heartbeat, can feel Illya, can’t tell them apart, like he sunk into Illya when Illya sunk into him. For a moment, neither of them moves, nothing but sweat and saliva between them, until Napoleon speaks up. “Move.” He feels golden lashes tickle his cheek when Illya blinks and he grits his teeth, willing his brain to work for him, find the right word. _“Move.”_  
So Illya does.

 

He wont stop kissing him, the wet slick of his mouth against Napoleon’s drowning his moans until Illya tilts his hips just perfectly and pleasure pulses through Napoleon like electricity. Making him feel restless, mouth falling open to gasp and he can’t concentrate on the kiss anymore, fingers slipping on sweat slick shoulders.

 _“Like that?”_ He sounds so fucking smug, licking a hot stripe along Napoleon’s jaw as he rolls his hips, getting used to the new rhythm.  
_Fucking asshole, yes, like that_ ; Napoleon wants to say, but he can hardly breathe, _competitive bastard_ , fingernails digging into Illya’s shoulders and his voice cracks. He feels like he’s whining, gasping as Illya’s cock drags over his prostrate, making liquid fire pulse through his insides. 

Illya- he fucking takes it seriously. While his hips keep their slow, easy rhythm, making Napoleon shake in his grip, he kisses him again, unbothered by the fact that Napoleon hardly has the mind to try and kiss back. Just licks into his lax mouth and teasingly bites at his bottom lip before straightening up. 

Then, just as he shifts his weight on the bed, Napoleon very suddenly realises what’s going on, what Illya’s doing. Napoleon makes an alarmed sound, tries to shake his head because there’s no way he’ll- he won’t _survive_ , but Illya doesn’t listen, he shuffles his legs just that bit further apart to give himself more leverage and tightens his grip on Napoleon’s hips, leaving bruises like five rose petals. 

Like a gentleman, he leans in for a kiss before really giving it to him, putting all that ridiculous power and strength behind his thrusts right from the start and Napoleon loses it. Loses it.  
Spit-slick, half swallowed moans and the room seems to tilt on its axis and he can’t breath, like petals caught in his throat. Pleasure is chocking him and he throws his head from one side to the other, trying to clear his mind, find something to hold on to when fire and desire are blurring his vision.

Illya is like a machine, like the epitome of power, of efficiency, keeps working him. Where Napoleon’s muscles are useless, his body lax and overwhelmed, Illya is holding him up, the strength behind his thrusts never faltering, angle never changing. Perfectly tuned to drive Napoleon out of his mind. Like Illya has found his setting, programmed perfectly. 

Half a mind and Napoleon knows he’s loud, but when Illya leans in, brushing their cheeks together, Napoleon realises that Illya is loud too, hitched gasps and desperate moans. The arm he’s leaning on is shaking against Napoleon’s forehead and while his hand on Napoleon’s hip is carefully not too tight, his grip on the sheets turns his knuckles cotton-white.

Napoleon sees this through a fog of pleasure so intense it’s almost pain and he rolls his head to the side. The tip of his nose brushes Illya’s cheekbone, drops of sweat like pearls rolling down the bridge of Napoleon’s nose. His pleasure-numb tongue stumbles over the foreign syllables. _“You can let go.”_

Illya shudders against him and Napoleon feels him deep inside, twitching. _“Let go.”_ His hand is uncoordinated, sliding up the perfection of Illya’s torso to rest on his neck, feeling his pulse hammering against his thumb. 

This is what it takes, apparently, and Illya’s self-control is crumbling, his thrust turn brutal, the pleasure that surges through Napoleon blinding, his grip on Napoleon’s hipbone bruising like he’s trying to break him apart completely. His moans vibrating through Napoleon, making his ears sing. 

Napoleon pulls at him, pulls him in, closer, and Illya falls against him, fits their bodies together and tangles their limbs and the pleasure cuts through him like lightening. Illya presses closer, closer and Napoleon can feel his orgasm shudder through him, he sounds like it hurts, his mouth wet and hot against Napoleon’s cheek, the barest hint of a sharp tooth against his cheekbone and without warning, pleasure surges through Napoleon like a wave, drowning in ecstasy. He whites out for the eternity of a heartbeat, his body sizzling, weightless, swept away. 

When he comes to, they’re both still gasping, still hot, still sensitive. Instead of pulling out, Illya wraps his arms around him and Napoleon can feel him shake, quivering, gasping hiccupping breaths. It’s incredibly difficult to raise his hand, like his limbs turned to stone, and yet Napoleon reaches for Illya. Gently scratching through the sweat-damp hair on the back of his neck, soothing. 

-

The pastels of the early morning have been replaced by oil paint, rich and vibrant. Napoleon follows the architecture of Illya’s back with his fingertip and admires the luxurious, hedonistic splendour of his view. Creamy-white sheets folding around a smooth, golden-tan body like a baroque painter draped them around an ancient Greek hero. 

_“You came with me.”_  
It’s not quite a question. Not with how afraid Napoleon is of what the answer might be. His eyes are greedy, trying to steal as much of Illya as possible, in case he’ll vanish.  
Blue eyes under golden lashes, a smile curling into the crook of Illya’s elbow. _“It’s not easy to be loved by you and resist.”_

Outside, the branches gently scratch the window, soothing. Illya’s warm hands pull Napoleon down to drown in baroque sheets, a smile tucked into the crook of his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go! Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> The plot in itself is done but there are a few things left to say.
> 
> Firstly:  
> The statue with silver eyelashes Napoleon mentions exists - I'm sure there's more but I had [this one](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charioteer_of_Delphi) in mind. 
> 
> Also:  
> The cursive, and I think I didn't mention that before, is what's being said in Russian. Since Napoleon speaks it, but it's not his native language. Since Illya was made (weird way to say it tbh but hey) in Russia, he does not speak English (yet).
> 
> Also (2):  
> I referenced Alice in Wonderland/Through the Looking Glass again, since this is still the same chapter as Cold Hands 1. And I did have a lot of fun with parallels, repetitions, references and so on in general. I hope you had, too.
> 
> Regarding Illya and his behaviour:  
> This was really difficult to me because I wanted to keep their banter and their dynamic, which is extremely hard since they're both very fairytale-esque in love. Also there was very little room to explain his actions? The idea was, in case it got lost, that he still is a cheeky little shit. But he's also no doubt in love with Napoleon and his feelings for him are comparable to the way Napoleon feels for him - utter devotion basically. The explanation for this is taken from Ovid, where the first thing Galatea sees/is aware of is Pygmalion and how much he loves her, so she falls for him. This happened here, too. And another word regarding Ovid: While Ovid used a kiss to wake Galatea, I wanted the initiative to be on Illya's side. I just preferred it that way. And I liked the idea that the first thing Napoleon sees is that little finger twitch habit, since for canon (movie) Illya, it's a sign that something will happen soon. It's like a warning sign for an outburst of emotion and while it's sad/dangerous/negative in the movie, I feel like the significance of the finger tapping is in a way fitting for this scenario.
> 
> And one last thing:  
> The next "chapter" will take place at Napoleon's apartment back in the States and as of yet, I planned a Bottom Illya scene. What are your thoughts on that? Please tell me! I haven't seen it a lot.
> 
> Again - thank you so much for reading! Thank you for joining me in this!  
> Thank you for kudos and comments! They keep me going and I'm always incredibly happy to see that you liked what I've produced for you :)
> 
> Have a nice day/night! <3


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